After the War
by KausaticFeelings
Summary: After the War. Gilbert Beilschmidt, Matthew Williams, Alfred F. Jones. AU, character death.


Even as I think of it now, I had known I would regret telling them. Hell, they were the ones who told me I would regret it. Here I am, sitting across from a ghostly pale, red-eyed albino, who may or may not really be there. I really didn't know anymore, and as I write this, I'm pretty sure you don't know either.

About ten years ago, I can't be sure, war took over the world again, bloodlust and destruction in the hands of every country. Welcome to World War Three. Welcome to Hell. At this point they were synonymous, to me, there wasn't a difference. After years and years of ill-balanced peace, the scales of harmony and destruction had tipped, towards ruin, obviously. I wasn't prepared, none of us were. When conscription started everyone became a mess, trying to get away, hide. Me, Gil and my brother Alfred went willingly.

Al died first, not even six weeks in, a frag grenade went off, one of the splinters went right through his eye, I don't know if he died instantly, I just know he died. That was when it started becoming too much, I abandoned, shooting myself in the leg, right through bone, the bone fractured and they sent me home. Gil stayed behind, ever the loyalist, but even someone as loyal as him wouldn't take it well after a year, I guess. They found him in the canteen, swinging from a rope. That's not the worst part though; in the official report his neck wasn't broken. He had hung there and suffocated to death. It wasn't quick, and hell took it's time taking him from me, us, you could say, but me all the same.

Right now, Gil is staring at me from across the room, not saying much, but just being there hurts, and he knows it. Every bell and alarm that goes off, we jump and look into each other's eyes, but his eyes aren't like they used to be, instead of the living, humorous red, all I see is a flat, dull red, almost brown. I've got to ignore him, he's scaring me.

Gil started coming over more and more often after the war, at first it was once or twice a week. He would come over through the back door and head down to my basement where I spent most of my time, reading books or just fiddling with the television. When he showed up the first time I was elated, thinking maybe he had made it out alive after all, and it was a false report. As time went on, it slowly got worse and worse. At first, he was normal, a bit jumpy, but himself. About a month or two later he was always paranoid, looking around and jumping at the slightest noise. Then he started to fade away, his eyes and skin growing dull. I don't think he was capable of growing paler, being albino and all, but it almost seemed like he was, turning a bluish violet.

Weeks later it was like he stayed with me, sometimes disappearing for an hour, before coming back to my side. By then I had registered that something had changed between us. After a while, I noted how he would avoid being with me when I was around my counsellor, even my family, waiting for me in the car or at home. I was fine with it, but now that I think about it, why I didn't notice how he never spoke, even on the first day, not a word was spoken.

I told the counsellor about him only weeks later. She instantly started asking about meeting him, or calling him so she could talk to him. I would always say no, knowing Gil didn't like talking anymore, but after a while she asked me to talk to a different counsellor. Instead of a comfortable-seeming office, this place was almost like a hospital, in fact, it probably was. I remember talking to this new doctor, he never said much, almost reminding me of Gil, but always scribbling on his clip board. After an hour or so he would shake his head, and a nurse would come in, giving me a bottle of pills and instructions.

After a while, Gil even started coming with me to these appointments, which were becoming more and more frequent. Some point I mention that, and the doctor asked me to stay at this hospital, he said it was to keep me and Gil safe. I declined at first, but he was so insistent, convincing to the point where it only took him ten minutes to convince me to stay the night. As I sit in this room now, all the time has passed. I agreed to stay one night, but I already feel old, like I've been here for years, which, as it turns out, I have. For the past three years I've been in room 201 of the Royal Ottawa Mental Health Institution. I'm thirty two, and I only found out yesterday, and they still don't know what's wrong with Gil, pretty said, isn't it.

Here I am, sitting on the hospital bed, writing words down everything I can think of, me, my brother, and my lover. If I'm lucky I'll be joining them, six feet under. It hurts to think about it. Tying that rope around my neck and kicking the cold chair over. Maybe, it would feel good, though I doubt it.

At least I might see Alfred tomorrow.

~Matthew Williams.


End file.
